Lighted Flier
by jack-damian
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock and John are pretty much back the way they were. Then something on the back of a someone shakes things up, someone they know as well. Wing!fic
1. Chapter 1

**Okay I love Sherlock. This is post-Reichenbach but I won't be covering any of how Sherlock got back and this is wing!fic. Today will be a character extraordinarily under-mentioned considering how amazing he is. For all Sherlock geeks: 'serious' and 'resting places' are the clues.**

**I don't own Sherlock (sobs), it all belongs to Conan Doyle and the BBC!**

**Happy reading!**

"John!"

Aforementioned doctor sighed deeply and stomped down the stairs wearing only a t-shirt and sleeping shorts. When Sherlock finally stopped yelling at him and took notice that he was actually in the room, he pulled a disgruntled face at John's current attire.

"Get your coat, John, we have a case!" It never ceased to amaze John how Sherlock could be so tall and so clever, yet still act like a five-year-old offered ice-cream.

"Sherlock..."

"-just texted and there's a dead woman in a locked room, apparently died from alcohol poisoning-"

"Sherlock..."

"-need to get there quickly, before Anderson contaminates everything he touches-"

"Sherlock!"

"For goodness sakes', John, what?" Sherlock shouted back, exasperated. "You haven't got your coat on, or your shoes: how do you expect to go out?"

John sighed and resisted the temptation to smack his flatmate one. "Sherlock, nothing ever escapes your notice, so why have you not realised that _I'm in my pyjamas?_"

"Don't just stand there and tell me that then!" Sherlock was really getting agitated now. John figured it was like withdrawal: it had been weeks since their last interesting case and he was itching to get out. He growled something unsavoury under his breath and stomped back upstairs to get the clothes he had folded over his desk chair not twenty minutes ago.

He had a feeling it would be a long night.

* * *

Sherlock hopped out of the cab, long coat flapping wildly like some daemonic bat with John left to pay the cab (nothing had changed there) and follow him out, looking like the bland anti-climatic assistant in the brown woolly jumper and plain jeans that he was. Only one or two of the constables and sergeants under the DI here could tell he had his favoured Browning in his jacket pocket. Of course, they knew it didn't technically exist, courtesy of Mycroft and his influence as the government.

The murder of the day, as Sherlock had once poetically put it to him, had occurred in a third floor flat of a building on Culworth Street, just over five minutes from 221B. Sergeant Donovan had filled them in as they walked to the doors. The woman, Lillia Cherenkova, was a first generation British school teacher who'd recently retired and divorced from her husband of ten years, Rob Brightby. She'd taken her parents' Russian name back and made sure it went onto her bank cards. She hadn't turned up to a coffee morning with two of her friends and they'd reported her missing a day later when they hadn't had an apology text.

John breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed Lestrade walking out of the building sporting a lovely-looking black eye. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Really, Lestrade, and I thought your brain was slow," he drawled, making to poke the bruise with one long index finger, which was roughly batted away.

"No cracks about being old, if you don't mind," he barked, clearly not having a good day, if the bruise was anything to go by. "You know about the victim?"

"Donovan told us a pitifully small amount but then you never have very much to go on, do you? And when did you and Anderson break it off?" he asked suddenly, turning to Donovan, who blushed slightly.

"Last month," she replied stiffly. "I'm sure I told John, who definitely told you."

"Why should I care about your dull little affairs?" Sherlock retorted. "Now then: dead lady."

"Sixty-six-year-old Lillia Chenekova. Parents were Russian but she was born in Brighton. Taught history up until three years ago when she had a hip replacement, which forced her to retire. Married twice and broke up with her more recent husband last year: he moved to Glasgow and took most of the money, except her pension. Didn't meet her friends yesterday, found dead about three hours ago." As always, Lestrade's memory astounded John, not like he'd say that in front of Sherlock, who would then rip the poor DI to shreds with his superiority: something else that hadn't changed.

"Cause of death?"

"At the moment, it's unclear but forensics reckon it's alcohol poisoning, which is why I called you in."

"Which is because?"

"Her records show she's allergic to ethanol."

John frowned. "Why does that matter?"

"Ethanol is the alcohol in alcoholic beverages, John, you have it at least twice a week," Sherlock told him condescendingly . "And it's not an allergy, Lestrade, it's called being alcohol-intolerant. Sixty-six, she'd know she was alcohol-intolerant, so obviously she didn't drink it herself. Any needle marks?"

Lestrade sighed. "Another problem: she was diabetic and an ex-addict, so we can't tell one shot from another. Timings from the autopsy might tell us but we won't get the results until tomorrow at the earliest."

"Let me see the body," Sherlock promptly demanded, then frowned. "Something the matter? Besides having a dull little brain and a black eye, obviously."

John just stood and stared. Sergeant Donovan joined in. Because Sherlock had just actively inquired after someone's well-being. A fiver discreetly changed hands among the ranks of the constables.

John was also surprised it had taken Sherlock so long to notice: Lestrade had been wincing and frowning uncomfortably since they'd arrived. It had been the first thing he himself had spotted, after the black eye and yellow police tape.

"Fine, to both," Lestrade grumbled, though it was obvious to everyone that he was lying. But then everyone knew Lestrade was more likely to treat something with a plaster and a cup of coffee (or something stronger if it was the end of a case)than actually seek medical advice. Sherlock frowned, knowing he was being lied to but, oddly, he dropped it and his gesture all but ordered Lestrade to lead the way, regardless of his health worries.

Like with all council flat buildings in London, the lift was terminally broken, so they had to run up six flights of stairs to the third floor. Lillia Chenekova's door had been lock-picked and was standing wide open. Two people in blue suits were already poking round but the body itself hadn't been touched. Luckily for Sherlock's IQ, neither was Anderson. The forensics guy handed all three latex gloves and went back to his work without a word.

The dead woman was sat in the armchair, looking like she had sat down and lent her head back after a long day doing a job she had left three years ago. Her hair was obviously dyed, such a vivid red wasn't natural even at Donovan's age, and she wore reading glasses frequently. Her dress sense was shocking even for such an old lady and she favoured purple over pretty much every other colour in the spectrum.

John was still looking around when Sherlock announced "Ex-husband!" like he'd just won the lottery.

Lestrade looked suitably baffled. "Alright, how'd you work this one out?" he asked, knowing Sherlock would tell him anyway but by asking it presented the illusion that the DI was in control still.

Sherlock sighed deeply. Once he might have remarked on how slow everyone else was compared to him but after a row with John about feeling belittled and feelings, he repressed the obvious urge and just got on with it.

"Drinks' cabinet is empty aside from one bottle, meant for two but half empty: only one person drank. Probably recent, the cork's still next to it and it smells fresh. The killer put it back where she could see it, as a reminder of her intolerance. One small sofa and one chair, lumps are present from when two people would have sat on the sofa together but she is sat in the chair, indicating a preference to be detached, and the sofa cushions have been moved, very recently. The dust layer gives it away," he added when he caught John's open mouth out of the corner of his eye. "so, the drink which she wouldn't buy and someone sitting down and disturbing her ordered home both point to someone visiting. The visitor put the drink down on the coffee table, ignoring the coaster, trying to aggravate her: this house is spotless, OCD I'm guessing but can't be certain without psychological records and even then it might not be on there, so the drink creates a ring on the table, which she didn't clean up: she was already dead. So someone who knew her well then, knew her idiosyncrasies very well, enough to know exactly how to annoy her.

"She left her husband: her ring is in the ashtray. He smoked, she didn't, it hasn't been used recently. The ring she threw there, it dented the metal, and she just forgot or ignored it. So it didn't end well then. Door wasn't forced, so it was locked. Bet none of you spotted this." In his hand was a key, most likely the key for the door. "He had a key, never handed it back and used it to make it look like a locked-door murder, or possibly a suicide. Slight bruising on her left wrist and right foot: hand-shaped and foot-shaped. He pinned her down and with her hip and general small stature, she couldn't throw him off. Minute tear in the shirt she's wearing: it was an injection, probably of concentrated alcohol, directly into the bloodstream. She insulin-dependent diabetic, so she'd inject her thigh, most likely, and she's right handed, yet the tear is on her right arm: doubt she'd commit suicide with her weaker hand. Conclusion: jealous ex-husband who feels hard-done-by, even though he took everything, heavy drinker from the alcohol he brought and the dust patterns in the cupboard which show where lots of bottles used to stand and she wouldn't clean it because she doesn't care about that, so he kills her knowing her biggest weakness, probably for the life insurance money to fund his drinking habits and debt."

"Amazing."

"You're doing it again."

"Sorry."

"Give this to forensics, get the fingerprints. That's your man." This was directed at Lestrade, who held out a plastic bag that Sherlock dropped the key into. He then promptly pocketed it and rubbed his shoulder gingerly, like he'd pulled a muscle. Sherlock frowned deeply, pulling the DI's hand away from the area and feeling it through his jacket and shirt, and maybe vest considering the temperature though somehow John doubted Lestrade was really a 'vests' kind of bloke.

"Get off me, Sherlock!" John watched curiously: it was rare that the gruff but good-tempered man ever lost his cool, even with Sherlock who annoyed the crap out of everyone. Lestrade jerked his shoulders out of Sherlock's long hands and glared daggers at the man.

"It's bothering you again, isn't it?" It wasn't a question.

"I could be wrong but I think that's none of your business." John was sure that was what he'd said to Mycroft when they'd first met. Sherlock matched his glare for a few moments then sighed in the way that long-suffering do.

"Whatever you say, Lestrade. I've caught your murderer and you're refusing to admit you need a few days off or you're going to wear yourself out and training a new DI will be far too much hassle, so can we go?" Sherlock asked irritably. Lestrade just waved them away and strode out of the flat to talk to Donovan, who was patiently waiting for him.

* * *

It was only later, when John was typing up the case on his blog, that he realised exactly how out-of-sorts the detective had been.

"Sherlock?" he shouted through, when said consulting detective was currently engaged in an experiment involving lithium, hydrochloric acid and fire. John had decided against asking.

"Little bit busy!" Sherlock shouted back, though the latter half of his reply was drowned out by a large bang and copious amounts of smoke, from which Sherlock emerged, gasping and coughing and with the sleeves of his jacket slightly blackened. "Okay, not busy now, ask your question before I get bored and decide it isn't worth my time. Is Doctor Who on tonight?" John just rolled his eyes at his flatmate.

"It's Saturday, Sherlock, yes it's on tonight. And what was that about, with Greg at the Russian woman's flat?"

After a few minutes, John turned around just to see if Sherlock was paying attention. As it turned out, he wasn't.

"She-"

"Don't bother asking me if I heard your question because I did. Don't then ask why I didn't reply because of course I know the answer. Unfortunately for your insatiable curiosity, it isn't my answer to give. And before you ask what I mean by that, I mean Lestrade asked me to keep it a secret and I told him I would." And with that, John didn't get a word out of him for the rest of the night.

**Anyone who reads any of my pieces will know that I am appallingly slow at updating. I'm sorry, I just have a lot on my plate. I actually have a pretty thorough plan for this and I should be able to post the next chapter within the week. No promises though.**

**The review button is not just for decoration!**

**jack-damian**


	2. Chapter 2

**see chapter 1 for disclaimers**

* * *

"Duck!"

When a slightly taller man of similar build pulled John to the concrete path running haphazardly through the space between terraced houses, he briefly pondered how the hell this had happened. Then there was a series of very loud bangs, a sudden bright light and then everything went black.

* * *

"Alright, the guy's gone round to the back streets, probably trying to lay low, get under the radar. He's armed, so if he does try and pull one on you, just duck behind something and keep him in your sights. As long as he's in front of you and you're behind something, chances are he can't shoot you..."

"Pointless," Sherlock muttered, staring at Lestrade as he briefed the other officers Superintendant Marshall had assigned to catching the serial sniper. He'd left a trail of clues so obvious Sherlock wasn't really needed but Lestrade had called him in anyway, partially because he hadn't given Sherlock a case since Chenekova's murder had ended in success for them and a small (okay, blown-out-of-proportions) disagreement, but also because there were one or two things that threw a spanner in the works. Sherlock had confirmed the odd things to be a hoax as the murderer tried to throw the police off his scent, informed Lestrade he had been right the first time, asked why he had bothered wasting Sherlock's time and then demanded to be involved in bringing him in.

"It's routine, Sherlock, leave him alone. Just because he doesn't feel the need to have you play nanny for him..." John had to admit, he'd been enjoying ribbing Sherlock about Lestrade's tantrum over who cares for who, even though he shouldn't use Lestrade's - issues? Probably not the right word but he couldn't think of anything better - issues against the detective.

"It's time-wasting," Sherlock hissed back: Lestrade was coming over, checking his own Browning was loaded as he walked. He rolled his shoulder continually as he did: clearly it was still as bad as it had been twenty four days ago. Sherlock shot the DI a criticising look, which he stubbornly ignored.

"There's no point me asking you to partner up with someone, is there?" Sherlock simply scoffed, obviously wondering why Lestrade had bothered asking in the first place. "In that case, look after yourself, meet back here at two and try not to get shot." Sherlock scoffed again, considering the advice a clear waste of time before walking off into an alleyway between two buildings, his coat and his hair swallowed up almost immediately.

It made a shiver crawl down John's spine.

"I'm hoping you're feeling more sensible than that insane flatmate of yours," Lestrade muttered, not in a better mood now than he had been when John had last seen him. If anything he was worse: not as grumpy but wearier. He didn't normally look it but the man was getting on a bit. It struck him then that he didn't actually know how old Lestrade was, and with the man wound so tightly, he decided against asking and risk pissing him off.

"All the time, considering how incapable of being sensible Sherlock is," John replied, sending Lestrade a slight smile. He returned it weakly.

"Sorry about being such an arse at the Chenekova case. Pulled something in my back and it aches and itches. Been driving me crazy," he murmured, by way of explanation.

"I could take a look, if you don't want to go to a GP," John offered, more than a little concerned for the DI he counted as a close friend. If he'd had those symptoms for so long, it was unlikely that it was a pulled muscle: a trapped nerve more likely or something worse. They'd gotten closer after Sherlock 'died' but his return had estranged them slightly.

Greg laughed and shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, and yeah GPs bug me, but I've had aches like this before and they tend to clear up within the month. I don't want to bother you."

John didn't feel any better, knowing this was a recurring problem. He was tempted to insist, remind Greg that he never felt it a waste of time but Greg would only get insulted and annoyed that his decision wasn't being respected.

"Let's go," murmured Lestrade and took the lead into yet another dark alley. Clearly the council had forsaken this area because even though they passed six streetlight within five minutes, only one was actually functional.

Then a bullet smashed into the brick beside John's head and both men immediately bolted for the nearest cover, reflexes automatically taking over.

Lestrade had been closer to a perpendicular alley and darted inside, returning fire only twice, not confident enough in his ability to hit something with that range and light. John had been forced behind a huge bin, unable to stand up without risking having his head blown off. It was frustrating to say the least.

The shots stopped but both men stayed put for a few minutes until they were certain they were alone in the alley now. Then Lestrade darted from the alley, spry considering how tired he'd looked earlier, and pulled John to his feet.

"Bonsoir, messieurs!" A high-pitched French man was squealing from in front of them and the shadow of him raised a huge semi-automatic, the kind Lestrade rarely, if ever, saw and the kind John acutely remembered from Afghanistan. He didn't fire though and John took the opportunity, hitting him square in the shoulder.

That was no help.

"Duck!"

Suddenly Lestrade was on top of him, forcing him to the ground so that the second bullet meant for his head went right over. By 'right over', that meant it ploughed straight into Lestrade's shoulder.

The DI was thrown from John's back and landed hard a few feet away, lost to a sudden blinding light from the streetlight, which chose that moment to start working properly. John couldn't see a thing but he could still hear and he was sure he recognised the sound of cloth tearing. Then the light flickered out again and they were plunged into darkness.

There was violent French swearing from somewhere down the alley: the man had dropped his gun out of shock and was having a hard time trying to find it. John used the noise to cover for him crawling towards where he'd seen Lestrade fall before the light came on. The first thing his hand touched was shredded cloth: a breast pocket, with a phone still in it. Then there was something warm and runny: blood from the bullet wound. Then something that should not have been there.

_Feathers_.

They weren't just small feathers either: the ones John had his hand on were probably not much shorter than he was. He followed them up and found they didn't belong to a bird. Instead they belonged to the body lying unconscious in the alley with a bullet in his shoulder.

_Lestrade_ had _wings_.

"Putain!" The Frenchman was shouting now, probably still swearing by his tone of voice and there were sounds of flesh hitting flesh and flesh hitting concrete. John could hear Sergeant Donovan's distinctive voice, hard-edged with nerves, worry and righteous anger, as she read the Frenchman his rights and cuffed him.

Then someone was crouched down beside John, pulling him off Lestrade's prone form. He didn't register the fact that it was Sherlock until the younger man pulled off his coat and covered the DI with it: luckily it was large enough that all feathers were hidden from sight.

Behind them, there was suddenly an explosion of shouting. John turned sharply and had to duck yet again to avoid having both his eyes shot through. The Frenchman had kicked Donovan's legs out from underneath her and dived for his semi-automatic, brought it up and sprayed their direction with bullets. Sherlock had to flatten himself on the floor, in a puddle to his obvious distaste, but the noise brought Lestrade round and he raised himself just far enough that the coat fell off him slightly and a bullet clipped the joint between wing and back.

The DI screamed.

The Frenchman fell with a bullet between the eyes, courtesy of one very pissed off consulting detective.

The doctor immediately took off his own jacket, noticing blankly that Sherlock had pinched his Browning, and applied pressure to the bullet wound. Luckily said bullet wasn't still in his flesh: it was imbedded in the wall instead, but Lestrade was getting paler and paler. John knew he needed a hospital but with the _wings..._

"221B," Lestrade muttered. "Before they notice..." They of course meant the Sergeants and Constables gathered around the dead Frenchman, who had yet to spot the three men skulking in the darkened parts of the alley. Sherlock of course realised immediately that the flat was the only real hope of sanctuary for them at the moment and immediately moved to help Lestrade to his feet, making sure the coat stayed around his shoulders, as much for warmth (Lestrade's shirt was in tatters in a puddle) as for protection, and keeping to his right. John retrieved the shredded shirt as well as Lestrade's phone and followed them away.

They took a cab back to 221B, hoping that Donovan hadn't noticed Lestrade's disappearance yet. The man in question was currently sat forward on the seat with his left arm dangling grotesquely (bone broken, John noted) and looking vaguely like he might either throw up or faint sometime in the next few minutes. Sherlock was texting rapidly, though John couldn't fathom who to, but every thirty seconds precisely he looked up and assessed the DI's condition. As the frown got progressively deeper, so Lestrade got fainter and paler and 221B got closer.

Finally they turned onto Baker Street and Sherlock leaned forward to speak to the cabbie, something John couldn't hear over Lestrade's hushed profanities, but the man nodded and turned around, so that Lestrade's side was closer to the front door. John made another mental note, this one to ask Sherlock when he'd developed the ability to give a shit that someone was hurt.

Then again, Sherlock had always had a soft spot for Lestrade, one John had never truly noticed or felt the need to question before.

Luckily Mrs Hudson was in bed, seeing as it was going on three in the morning, so she didn't notice Sherlock and John practically carrying Lestrade up the stairs. Normally they would have deposited him on the sofa but Sherlock instead guided them into his bedroom, where it was tidier and Lestrade would have more room to spread his wings. Now quite literally.

While John nipped out to get his medical bag, Sherlock helped Lestrade to lie down on his front, with his broken arm out of the way and his wings spread in the most comfortable position Sherlock could remember. The DI was so out of it with pain that all he did was moan quietly in response. The consulting detective tried to get any other response but Lestrade was practically dead to the world.

"John? He's unresponsive, you need to hurry!" It was a testimony to how concerned he was for Lestrade that Sherlock only slightly raised his voice, rather than bellowing as he usually did when calling for his flatmate. Lestrade still managed to produce another moan as the loud noise made his head throb.

John darted into the room, surprisingly light on his feet considering his broad rugby build and the medical bag he was carrying and shooed Sherlock off the bed. He simply pulled his desk chair as close to the bed as the doctor would allow and watched Lestrade carefully. John had only ever seen such an expression of concern a few times, most of which had been in his direction, the most recent at his panic attack when Sherlock had appeared on his doorstep.

_No, not going to think about that now, _he told himself very firmly. _The man is injured and has wings and I am _not_ jealous he's got Sherlock's attention._

* * *

**Sorry for the delay but honestly this was quick for me! Oops.**

**Did anyone actually get the hint? A synonym for serious is 'grave' and a grave is a resting place: Rupert Graves! No? Yeah...**

**R&R please!**

**jack-damian **


	3. Chapter 3

John carefully moved Lestrade's shoulder back into the socket, surprised when he immediately curled his arm under his head. _Dislocated then, not broken, _he realised and quickly berated himself for getting it mixed up. That had never happened before and now he really needed to focus because oddly enough, he wasn't a vet and had never stitched up a wing joint before. Luckily, Lestrade seemed to have passed out, though in terms of blood loss that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

Sherlock watched the proceedings with sharp eyes, like he would jump in and stop John the moment it looked like Lestrade was in any form of discomfort. With the DI unconscious, Sherlock sat there and worried. John never seen Sherlock fidget before but out of the corner of his eye he could see the consulting detective playing 'here's the church and here's the steeple, open the door and here are the people' over and over again, speeding up until John was afraid he might dislocate all his fingers at some point.

The first bullet had _dislocated _Lestrade's shoulder, which made next to no sense: the bone should have been shattered but it hadn't. John just sighed, the shoulder bone was alright now but there was still a hole in the front and back of Lestrade's shoulder, which John very carefully disinfected and sewed up, applying a little cream to numb the pain. Even with the DI out, he didn't want to hurt the man any more than absolutely necessary.

A soft moan signalled to John, and to Sherlock because the man practically leapt out of his chair and knelt next to Lestrade's head without his feet touching the floor, that the DI was coming round. If his accelerated breathing was any indication, he was either in an astronomical amount of pain or he was bordering on a panic attack. However, even worried Sherlock could read everything John was thinking from his body language and mouthed 'pain' at him. To John, that was a relief: a panic attack on top of everything else would not have been helpful.

"Sh'lock?" Lestrade's voice was awfully slurred, like he's had about a dozen too many. That was strange for John, who'd probably seen more of a drunk Lestrade than Sherlock but he'd never seen Lestrade so drunk that he couldn't string two syllables together properly. It was odd with the DI's soft West Country accent as well.

"Es ist mich," he replied, speaking German for some odd reason. John had heard that Lestrade was fluent in that language, so maybe it was Sherlock's way of keeping Lestrade focused, by getting him to work through a conversation in his second language.

"Nicht nett, Sherlock," Lestrade replied, slowly but with less of a drunkenness to his voice this time. Very carefully, John began stitching up the cut that had followed the bullet after it went through Lestrade's wing (that was still weird to say and would probably stay weird for a while). "Mein Rücken tut weh," he murmured.

"Ich weiß, ich weiß," Sherlock whispered back, a comforting tone in his voice that again John had only ever heard directly at him before.

"Ist es schlecht?" asked Lestrade, obviously wanting to peer over his shoulder but not strong enough to at the moment.

"Ein bisschen. Es gibt Blut," he admitted. John had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. He could however still recognise his own name. "Aber John ist einen guten Arzt. Er wirt dich besser machen."

"Er ist ein gutes Freund auch." John wondered what Lestrade had just said about him but the weak affection meant it was probably good. "Kann ich schlafen?"

"Nicht jetzt," Sherlock said and for Sherlock, that was very apologetic. Schlafen, John was fairly sure meant sleep and no, Lestrade could not go back to sleep just yet, not until John had done some basic cognitive tests.

"Wo sind wir?" Lestrade asked instead, as though he had only just realised the need to ask that question.

"Mein Zimmer, zwei-zwei-eins-bay," Sherlock replied softly. Even John wasn't thick enough to not know what that meant. "Bist du fertig, John?" _Finished? _he mouthed at John, who gave him a thumbs-up that was almost straight.

"Ist er?" Lestrade asked weakly. Even in German, there was no mistaking how desperate the poor man sounded.

"Beinahe, beinahe," Sherlock assured him, very gently stroking the top parts of the feathers, which John's brain said were called the lesser coverts. It prompted a very sleepy sort of purr from Lestrade, a sound John could feel rumbling beneath his hands.

"Können wir setzen das Licht auf?"

"Wenn du willst."

"Bitte." Again that pleading desperate tone that should never come from Lestrade.

"Fertig," John announced quietly, fairly sure he was using the right word. He must have been because Sherlock smirked at him like he was impressed but trying not to show it and Lestrade sighed in relief. "Light?" Sherlock just nodded and turned back to Lestrade, murmuring quietly in German, no longer expecting a reply.

John very carefully turned up the light, grateful Sherlock had insisted he needed a light that he could vary in intensity. It had more to do with what few experiments he actually conducted in his bedroom (it was a place to sleep, not work, and any experiments would probably distract him) but it still meant they could put the light on without hurting Lestrade's rather-senstive-at-the-moment eyes.

It also meant that John could get a good look at Lestrade's wings for the first time.

They were huge, probably about three metres across, maybe four at the most. The longest feathers, the primaries, reached from his shoulders to his feet, about 1.6 metres. The feathers were like the feathers of a golden eagle in colour but the structure was closer to small birds like sparrows or larks. There were thousands of shades of brown in there, as well as some grey, black and even a tiny bit of blue.

They were stunningly beautiful.

At the moment though, they looked a mess. Most of them were slightly ragged and out of place, some were cropped slightly and there was blood on a large fraction of them, dried and crusting the feathers together. Sherlock had apparently already begun straightening and tidying them, as Greg lay there unable to even move, he was so weak from blood loss and peace.

"How do you feel, Greg?" John asked, coming to crouch just behind Sherlock, directly in the DI's line of sight. Half-lidded deep brown eyes rolled up to where John was and the tiniest of apologetic smiles flicked onto his dry lips.

"Not Greg," he confessed. "Gabe. No-one ever uses my first name anyway, so when they asked I just said it was Greg."

"What's Gabe short for?" John asked, running through a few basic checks as well as possible names as well.

"Gabriel," Lestrade admitted. "Just feels wrong, me having wings and all. 'm not 'n angel." Sherlock's eyebrows were obviously about to contradict that statement but Lestrade managed to lift one arm far enough that he could put a finger tenderly to Sherlock's lips. "Thanks for not saying anything to John before. Means a lot."

As if Sherlock's unfazed reaction wasn't enough evidence that he already knew, Lestrade had just confirmed it in a more roundabout fashion. John wanted to know, everything, but unlike Sherlock he had enough tact to decide that any waiting would be rewarded later.

"You're tense," Sherlock observed, taking the tone that he only used when he was using empirical evidence to try and convince someone to let him do something. "They were hurting before and this hasn't helped. You haven't taken very good care of them, Lestrade."

"Hypocrite," said DI got out around a soft yawn.

"Let me tidy them up," Sherlock ordered but his tone suggested it was actually an offer and that he would completely understand if Lestrade told him to fuck off.

There was silence for a minute as Lestrade weighed up the pros and cons of giving Sherlock free reign with his hands over his wings (still weird). Eventually he just sighed. "'k," he murmured, settling down into the bed more, arms wrapped around his head. "John can help too, if he wants." Sherlock immediately looked up at his flatmate with expectant eyes: of course he knew that John's curiosity would eventually outweigh his worry over hurting his friend.

"I'll get some water," he offered. "For the blood," he added when Lestrade frowned up at him. "Don't go anywhere," he joked and Lestrade just about managed to crack an amused smile, no matter how small.

In the kitchen, John had to take a moment to orientate himself. His _friend_ had purposely mislead him with names and how many appendages he had. Of course, he understood perfectly, if he had wings, he wouldn't have told anyone either, for fear of rejection or something much worse but it didn't stop him feeling hurt. Oddly though, he still found this entire thing weird in the same way that meeting Sherlock for the first time had been weird and coming to live in a flat with a landlady who did everything she could for them and yet insisted she wasn't their housekeeper and a sociopath with body parts in every kitchen appliance they owned (though never the kettle, probably because John might blow a fuse in that eventuality). It was a weird he could get used to.

Sherlock had been busy while John had been out. A good third of Lestrade's right wing was looking much neater, with the feathers tidier and glossier as well. Apparently just by running his hands over them, Sherlock could make them look healthier.

Then John really looked, observed, and realised the healthiness of the feathers extended to all of them. But Sherlock was methodical and would never have run his hands over all of them in such a broad unfocused way.

"Turn the light down, John," Sherlock ordered quietly without looking at him. When Sherlock returned to customary silence and John obeyed, he instantly noticed two things about Lestrade. The first was that he was 'purring' again, a deep continuous sound that was a simple summing up of pleasure, in any context. The second was that, now that the room was completely dark (half four in the morning, remember) the source of the new glow to Lestrade's feathers was revealed: they really were glowing.

From the space between the two layers of feathers, there was a very pale light shining, the same golden colour as the base colour of the feathers themselves but like it had been watered down slightly. The light highlighted Lestrade's brown eyes as well and the soft cheekbones and the parting of his lips and the fluttering of his eyelashes against his cheeks as he tried to stay awake. It was a sweet beautiful scene.

It didn't long for sleep to overwhelm Lestrade: John had been gently sponging the long feathers brushing the floor (his wings weren't folded, that would have been too painful, so they were at the moment lying limply on the floor for the most part) for less than ten minutes when the bedsprings creaked slightly as Lestrade fell asleep. The strange pale light intensified for just a moment before it returned to its original brightness and by then Lestrade was fast asleep, eyes softly closed and lips turned up ever so slightly in a smile that betrayed his dreams.

Sherlock didn't speak for a few minutes after Lestrade finally drifted off and John waited for him to, knowing if he spoke the detective wouldn't reply until he wanted to speak. So he continued neatening up Lestrade's feathers (not weird anymore), watching Sherlock almost reverently doing the same. His large hands and long fingers were surprisingly delicate, taking the utmost care when he touched the feathers, as though they were fragile and snapping one off could result in pain similar to getting shot.

Of course, John imagined it might be like having your finger or toe twisted off. He must still have nerves in his wings or he wouldn't be able to move them.

"He trusts you." When Sherlock spoke so suddenly and so softly, John took his hands away from the feathers automatically when he jumped.

"What makes you say that?" John asked quietly, fighting not to sound like he was accusing Lestrade of anything. "He didn't tell me anything."

"You found out he has wings today. When I found out, he didn't let me touch them for eight days but he let you touch them less than an hour and a half after. Him letting you touch them is like him saying that he trusts you with his life and soul." Sherlock didn't once raise his voice or put any inflection on any of the words but somehow they still rang with conviction and a little bit of jealousy at how quick Lestrade had been to trust John with this fragile part of him. "Gabe suits him," he added, so quietly it was almost an afterthought.

_Yes, it does. He's an angel to so many people, yet he doesn't see it in himself._ And John thought that was such a shame.

* * *

**omg two chapters in two days, I am on a roll! that said, blame YukinaKid, that review is what encouraged me to write this. (also fluff is easy for me) **

**for those of you who would otherwise miss out a whole chuck of the chapter, here are the translations.**

**Es ist mich. - It is me.**

**Nicht nett, Sherlock. Mein Rücken tut weh. - Not nice, Sherlock. M****y back hurts.**

**Ich weiß, ich weiß. - I know, I know.**

**Ist es schlecht? - Is it bad?**

**Ein bisschen. Es gibt Blut. Aber John ist ein gutes Arzt. Er wirt dich besser machen. - A bit. There is blood. But John is a good doctor. He will make you better.**

**Er ist ein gutes Freund auch. Kann ich schlafen? - He is a good friend also. Can I sleep?**

**Nicht jetzt. - Not now.**

**Wo sind wir? - Where are we?**

**Mein Zimmer, zwei-zwei-eins bay. Bist du fertig, John? - My bedroom, 221B. Are you finished, John?**

**Ist er? - Is he?**

**Beinahe, beinahe - Nearly, nearly.**

**Können wir setzen das Licht aus? - Can we turn the light on?**

**Wenn du willst. - If you want.**

**Fertig. -Finished.**

**all my bird knowledge came from this website here: . **

**read and review lovely people and enjoy!**

**jack-damian**


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